Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 66865 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66865 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Ronnie: BTW, since I woke him up, I owe him a BJ. So he says thanks.
Me: Jesus Christ.
Ronnie: GET ON WITH THE STORY, MY GAWD KIPLING. What are you helping this Teddy person with?
Me: How to date. I told her I’d be her hairy godmother.
Ronnie: You’re kidding me right?
Me: No
[five minutes later]
Me: Are you still there?
Ronnie: I’m sorry, hold on. Stuart and I are laughing so hard we have tears coming out of our eyes.
Ronnie: Hairy godmother? Oh my god, Kip, where do you come up with this shit? Mom would DIE.
Me: You said you weren’t going to say anything!
Ronnie: I know, I know, but…
Me: I swear to God Veronica.
Ronnie: RELAX, bro—relax.
Ronnie: Hairy godmother—what the hell even is that?
Me: I told her I’d teach her to be more assertive. She’s way too nice.
Ronnie: Omg. Do you LIKE HER?
Me: Yeah, she’s nice.
Ronnie: “Nice.” No. I mean—do you LIKE her, like her?
Me: No. She’s just a friend.
Ronnie: Kip, do you know how many great love stories start that way? “She’s just a friend.”
Ronnie: Yeah—a friend you want to bang.
Me: Don’t start with me. I do not want to bang her.
Ronnie: Yet.
Me: She’s just a friend. Barely even a friend.
Ronnie: Mark my words, Kipling: this isn’t going to have the ending you think it will…
***
TEDDY
I can’t sleep—no surprise—for several reasons:
It’s a strange house I’ve never been in, full of noises I don’t normally have to listen to while I’m trying to fall asleep.
It’s massive and I’m slightly intimidated.
There’s a huge dude down the hallway.
There’s a lock on my door, but he and I are alone, so this was probably one of the worst decisions I’ve made this semester besides living with Mariah.
Mariah.
What am I going to do about her? Do I have to do anything? I know she loves me—and the way she behaves? I’ve said it a hundred times (because lately, I’m always defending her) that’s just how she is, how she has always been, really. Since we were young, she’s always been hypercompetitive, and not just with me—with everyone.
I’ve learned that I just…have to stay out of her way. Stand back, let her do her thing, whatever that “thing” happens to be at the time.
Sports. Extracurriculars.
Boys.
Deep down, Mariah is sweet and giving and kind. Not everyone knows her the way I do, especially guys, because she never acts like herself when she’s around them.
No. When she’s around guys, she tends to laugh too loud, talk too loud, wear too much makeup, and dumb herself down. I don’t know why—I’ve never asked—but I’ve learned to accept it. If that’s how she wants to behave, who am I to tell her what to say and how loud?
Not that it would matter since she hardly listens to me anyway.
I roll toward the window in the dark guest bedroom then when the street light hits my eyes in the wrong spot, roll away, toward the door.
Stare at it.
I locked it, right?
I’m tempted to throw back the covers, hop out, and double-check, but I know I’m just being paranoid.
Besides, Kip? Grouchy, rude, crass Kip? Oddly, I feel like I can trust him.
Stupid, I know, but there you have it.
He brought me home because he was worried, not so he could assault me.
And, even with the beard and the hair and the huge body, I can tell it would still be easy for him to pick up women. Even with the beard and the hair and the huge body, he’s still easy on the eyes.
My eyes, anyway.
I roll to my back, staring up at the ceiling, thinking about the guy a few doors down the hall.
What is he doing in a house like this? Who owns it? Why are all the rooms professionally decorated? Did his parents die and leave him tons of money? Is he spending it wisely or blowing it all on stupid crap—like that expensive SUV of his?
I wonder how they died. Was it in a fiery crash or something worse, like an illness or disease?
That has to be the explanation—his parents died. Nothing else makes sense.
God, that poor thing!
Alone in the world and alone in this big house! No wonder he doesn’t want to talk about his parents; their loss must have been tragic.
You know what else I wonder? If he’s lying in his giant bed, thinking about me too. I know it’s a giant bed because I snuck a peek of his bedroom when I was walking to mine, the large four-poster placed strategically between two large windows in the center of the room.
No.
He’s not thinking about me—no doubt he’s already passed out.
A guy like that wouldn’t give me a second thought.
A guy like that would have his pick of girls on campus, long hair and unruly beard or not—that shit is so trendy right now. As I flop to my side, I wonder if he realizes that. He seems to think it’s incredibly off-putting, when in reality…